


When its over I'll just be hungry for another one.

by vtedy1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Battle for the Dawn, But he is needed, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Insanity, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, M/M, Male Sansa Stark, Multi, Older woman with younger man, Ramsay is his own warning, Restoring the Valyrian Freehold, Sansa's name is Hoster here, Sheepstealer - Freeform, Silverwing - Freeform, are coming back, cannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-10 07:24:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11686827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtedy1/pseuds/vtedy1
Summary: Crows are all liars, an old woman will tell you. The flapping of their wings can melt delicate snowflakes and make it so that wildfire pours from their wounds instead of icy water. They know it to be true but do it regardless. For when winter comes who is to survive? The many, or the few?





	1. Eternal dream

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own anything; please do not sue me.

Chapter 1: Eternal dream

Lyarra Snow

_Lyarra, wake up._

Always the same dream. Since she was little, she could see the beautiful evergreen forest. Hear the crunching of the snow below their feet. These feet, belonging to strangers in their strange blue leathers with their stranger still skin. Milky white with a blue tint to it.

_Lyarra, wake before they see._

High towers made of ice, decorated with ornaments and lightly covered with snow. An eternal land for undying people. Preserved by the cold, reigned over by their king.

_He is an outsider, Lyarra, not of the blood._

They are all somewhat demure, these ice people. Like how Lady Stark is when she is forced to spend time with her husband’s bastard daughter. The shadow of her spring child. He, Robb, was supposed to be a child of winter but was not, and neither was his trueborn brother.

_Lyarra, if they see you winter will come for you._

Winter is coming. The words of  House Stark. Her father’s words but not her own. What were her words then? Be quiet and stay hidden? Lyarra seldom did anything else these days. Ever since she learned what it meant to be a bastard and why Lady Stark was oh so cold towards her.

_Lyarra, you waste time here. You are needed elsewhere._

Always the same cryptic messages. Elsewhere, where? Never telling, always demanding. Was she supposed to visit the lands where the snow always fell? Or travel to Essos or Dorne or go as far west as one can reach?

_War is coming. Where is your army, Lyarra?_

That was silly of the dream person to ask. She was a bastard. The only times her kind had armies at their command was when they plotted to overthrow their trueborn siblings. That was what Lady Stark always told her.

Lyarra didn’t want to usurp Robb. She didn’t want to see Hoster in a pool of blood. Lady Stark was wrong about her. She wanted them to be happy. She was a good daughter to her Lord father. She knew her place, even at her five name days.

Robb was meant to rule over Winterfell and be just and proper to the smallfolk so they would survive the winters and wars to come. Hoster was to be a bannerman and rule over Moat Cailin. The fortress was in disrepair now, but Hoster and Robb’s Lord Grandfather was going to pay for the reconstruction so both brothers might grow to be strong in their right.

And Lyarra herself will be grateful that she was fed and kept close to her siblings all these years. She will marry one of her father’s men and give him heirs and live happily on her brother’s lands.

She will not travel, and she will stay home where it would be safe and where duty is all that she will know until her last days.

_An Army is needed, Lyarra. The Freehold has to be reborn. Its legions have to be recreated. You don’t have much time left._

She would convince herself of the truth, _Lady Stark’s truth,_ and go to bed and then the crows would appear and show her strange lands and the memories of silver haired people long dead. Of these same people forcing all those around them to bow and to prepare.

It was never enough for them. Their fear drove them mad. It turned them into creatures of greed. Even when they forgot what they feared, not that they would admit it, they still needed more. More land, more gold, more slaves to make more weapons forged with Dragon's fire. Dragons that were hatched and fed until they were more. And yet they still feared.

_The Dragon remembers, Lyarra. If what they had wasn’t enough, what hope do you have if you don’t start preparing now?_

But how could the Dragon remember if they did not remember the ice skinned people of the lands where Winter reigns supreme? They prepared and yet all that irrational fear and greed led to them destroying all their former allies and angering all those who would have stood by them.

Now all of their preparation is for naught. All the death and fire and blood wasted. Nothing to halt the winds of winter. Should Lyarra retrace their steps and become a victim of greed and face their doom?

_The few or the many. Who should be left after the war, little Lyarra?_

She did not know why the crows insisted there was to be a war. The Greyjoy rebellion has been dealt with, and the iron born were in no position to raise again. For all that many muttered that there was unrest in King’s Landing the new King, Robert Baratheon, wasn’t rumored to be mad. Unlike the one who came before him.

And even if there was, what was a bastard like her going to change in the course of it? ‘The crows are all liars,' Old Nan would always tell her after Lyarra had told her of her dreams. ‘Liars and fools and they think they know what is best for the realm, only to gain ashes for their troubles.'

The little Snow child didn't know what to make of it. Perhaps it was a reference to one of the stories the senior woman had liked to tell as she knitted. The figurative grandmother of Winterfell’s inhabitants was the oldest and therefore the wisest. Even father listened to her. So should Lyarra.

_Do not listen to Shiera; she has lost her way. Come to me, Lyarra. The war has to be won, no matter what._

Lyarra feels the same fear that made the Valyrians wake up drenched in cold sweat night after night and order more troops to be trained morning after morning. The fear of the ice people of the lands unknown.

_But you do know them. You saw them. You even are aware of their name._

The Land Of Always Winter was a myth and crows were all liars and magic and the dragons are gone, and **_dreams are not real_**!

_You haven’t truly slept in months, child._

NOT REAL! NOT REAL! NOT REAL! NOT…Not…

_Calm yourself! Perhaps I tried to show you everything too soon. You are not ready. Sleep now. I will show myself to you later, least the God’s coin toss falls on the wrong side._

The crows stopped coming in her dreams after that. No one whispered in her ear that she must **“Burn them all.”** The fear didn’t leave with them. It was always evident. In the child’s calculated steps and how she always looked behind her shoulder. In her drive to learn her sums and how to prepare a holdfast for the coming winter. On how she always dressed simply as to not draw attention to herself.

The bastard Lady of Winterfell didn’t smile as often as she used to. She did spend almost all her time with her brothers. After all, if the crow was no liar and there was to be a war, then it would be her paragons of spring that would face the enemy. Surely, it would not be her. And if she was afraid they would ride out even if they were boys still, then it was only logical she didn’t miss a moment with them.

The winter’s daughter did learn to sew, and on Lady Stark’s knee no less, as her ladyship was pregnant with dear and much beloved Arya, the only daughter of one Eddard Stark and Catelyn Stark nee Tully, the Warden and Wardeness of the North. The only other winter’s child in the family that had Lya’s long northern face, gray eyes, and dark hair.

When Lady Snow, as most came to call her, learned how to wield the sword, she told herself it was only to protect herself if the need arises. **But from men, not from ice monsters.**

When Lady Snow learned how to mix simple healing tonics under Maester Luwin’s watchful gaze, she told herself she was doing it so she helps heal Hoster’s bruises after he sparred with Robb so the younger red haired Stark can see her as he used to: his sister. **Not as his bastard half-sister.**

As he started a few months ago. It had nothing to do with battle wounds. She was a bastard, a woman besides, her battlefield was the birthing bed. She had no place on a true one and therefore would _never_ see a battle wound.

When she spent her night by candle light perfecting her stitches she told herself she wanted to lessen some of the shame Lady Stark felt by her presence. To show her she valued the lessons the woman gave her and wasn’t ungrateful. And if her stitches were so precise the Maester would jape that she could sew a man's severed flesh without even leaving any room for scaring but her small needle's holes then it was just something that was good to be able to do. **Not that she would have to practice the skill.**

If she tried to pass all the things on Arya, who hated to sit still and loved to run and laugh and play with wooden swords. It was only because Lady Stark had less ice in her eyes when she saw how Lady Snow slowly was changing Arya Underfoot into Lady Arya. **Not that the ice ever fully melted, or Arya ever became a proper Lady, or Lyarra didn't just want to give her wild sister a chance to prepare for…not a war because there wasn’t going to be _one_.**

_Lyarra, Lyarra,_

_Sweet child of Snow._

_The Winds of Winter terrify you so._

_The Gods flipped a coin, and it landed right._

_But then a crow spread its wings and took flight._

_Now the coin is overturned and so are you._


	2. The calm, the proud, the foolish.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are times a compromise has to be made. But people seldom think of the price they pay because of it, inviting trouble where there could have been none.

Catelyn Stark

She remembered when she first felt pity for the bastard. It was during a cloudless afternoon. The little girl had a look about her as if she wanted to shout at something and yet there she stood. All by herself, sitting underneath the Weirwood Tree, still as its bark.

The girl still followed her trueborn siblings, but more as a silent shadow than a playmate. When she was not with them, little Lyarra would be in the library and when not there she could be found in her room, curled in on herself and whispering strange, incomprehensible things.

Catelyn at first told herself it was none of her concern. If the bastard were…ill, then Ned would finally listen to her and send the wretch away. To one of his bannermen or the Silent Sisters, and then there will be no one to stain her perfect family.

Until one day she saw her Ned greasing Ice and looking desperately at her. He was close to shading tears, she knew. For Lyarra Snow was the first child he had held when Robb was only letters to him, and Hoster was just a twinkle in his eye. She was his firstborn daughter, and by a woman, he loved so dearly that even after her death he would not share her name for fear of bringing shame on her memory.

And so Catelyn decided then and there that she would keep her family safe by doing her duty as the step mother of a motherless child as honorably as she could.

She began with small gestures. Asking for the child’s company in the sewing circle. Teaching her techniques that she learned from her true mother, and some she learned after her untimely passing, about her days, her studies, her games with the boys.

Deep down she knew the girl didn’t believe she was suddenly loved by her but appreciated not being treated as coldly as before. Maybe in fear of the former treatment returning, or maybe because of a need for approval, the Snow child did learn as much as she could from their lessons. Never complaining, never speaking to her with anything but respect.

By the time Lyarra was ten name days old some of the damage has been repaired. Albeit the girl now have developed some form of paranoia. Still, she hid it behind a mask of courtesies, one she was slowly passing to her infant sister, much to Catelyn’s approval.

Now, after all, that she has done to mend the bridge with the girl, she found herself regretting her past actions. The Snow was kind and knew her duty. Had she been birthed of her loins she would have been proud to call her daughter. Had she still thought of her as just Ned’s bastard she would have worried the girl would use her charms to set her brother’s bannermen against him?

Now? Lyarra Snow was her ward in all aspects. She would make it, so she marries a minor Riverland’s Lord to be well looked after. Her children can never have the chance to gaze at Winterfell with greed. For Lyarra herself had no desire for what belonged to her siblings. Somedays Catelyn was almost sure Lya had no ambitions whatsoever. 

Little did Lady Stark knew it was not Lyarra’s ambitions she should have feared. Or that by giving her an education befitting a Lady she had dug her own grave. Had Lyarra Snow stayed ignorant she would have been known as Lady Lyarra Frey of the Crossing. The last wife of Old Lord Walder, who unfortunately died in his wedding bed as the Lady Catelyn faked sadness at her step daughter's loss.

It would be even more unfortunate as it appeared the wine was poisoned and all of the widow’s new kin had died along with their sire. Even the bastards. Leaving the poor girl as the sole ruler of one of the most profitable keeps in the Riverlands and her step mother’s kin with a loyal and true banner woman.

But the Lady of Winterfell did not stop at stitches, and the child did not stop at what she learned at her knee. Even though she developed a fondness for the woman who once wished her ill she couldn’t protect her in the end. For she knew how to don a Lady’s armor and play the Game of Thrones. And if you are not the one who dies after a lost round, someone you love will. No matter what their plans were.

Hoster Stark

Ever since he could remember he was always supposed to be more than he was. A better archer, to help his brother during hunts. Better with his sums and letters so that he won’t be outshone by his bastard born sister. Better with children so little Arya won’t get frustrated every time he held her. Better at understanding the world, for everyone kept telling him his tails of knights were false.

But he was weak. Not in the sense that he couldn’t nook an arrow like his brother, or he couldn’t fight with a sword, again like his sainted sibling. His weakness lay in his inability to deny others.

The wolf in throat garments had a kind and gentle heart. Too soft for the future protector of the North’s gateway. When Jeyne Poole would look at the lemon cakes at the height table, always in abundance as they were his Lady mother’s favorites, he would hide some away and leave them wrapped in a napkin where he knew she would find them.

When Lyarra would look like she couldn’t sleep and was afraid of something he couldn’t see, he would weave her a wheel like the one mother makes when they are ill. He always felt like he was worse than an oath breaker when he needed to be colder to his sister than she deserved. But he knew deep down that any kindness that was shown to Lyarra would drive his mother’s ire, even now when she has started to accept her.

When little Arya would make a fuss at being read the Seven Pointed Star by her Septa, he would pick her up and try to reenact the religious text with more battles and shouting. She would giggle when he would pierce some heretic or another and all was well again.

He would help Old Nan down the stairs and assist the cooks in the kitchen bake sweets for everyone. The one he informs of the baked goods first is always Robb, of course. His brother is always lying in wait at the time, hidden from all, until the treats cool and ready to snatch enough for all of the children who remained close by and pretended they were just playing.

He tries to remember his place as the second son and be respectful. ‘Are you a lordling or a Lord to be, little Stark?’ Old Nan would always ask when he would step out of line. All in all, it was said that there was not a shred of ice in the veins of Eddard Stark’s auburn haired son, nor was any wolf blood to be worried about.

But they were wrong about him, he knew. He had sharp teeth just like his House’s sigil, and as of late he wanted to sink them into the bastard of House Bolton and tear the other boy to shreds.

It had all started innocent enough. A small boy in humble garb had sought out his elder half-sister and began to befriend her slowly. As Lyarra herself was a bastard, he thought that maybe the boy, Ramsay, was kind like her. He certainly acted the part the first few weeks after his initial visit.

Then strange things started to happen. Robb’s prized hound was found torn limb from limb. It had looked like an attack from a wild animal, so no one asked any questions. Hoster did, but people just ignored him. Poor Robb cried himself to sleep that night.

Then his books with tales of knights had found their way into the fireplace of the Main Hall. He had shouted and demanded his father banned Ramsay from visiting, but a cold look and the disappointment of his sister was all he got for trying to protect them all.

How could he, the trueborn, show so little compassion to poor abused Ramsay? And when his sister shared his lot in life, no less! Even his mother had given him a stern talking to, for Ramsay was not even her husband’s bastard, and if she can accept Lya, then she can live with the visits of the shy Snow boy.

It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair that his mother would even allow that monster near her while she was pregnant with his newest sibling, Brandon. It wasn’t fair she didn’t mind that he sometimes dined with them, always seated by Lyarra’s side. His dear older sister who kept her smiles only for Ramsay these days.

She knew he was dangerous! She knew of what he has done! Lyarra must also know the bastard was only after whatever dowry their father would surely supply her with!

But all this doesn’t matter anymore. The rules have changed. Lyarra had flowered recently. He had heard mother lecture Lya on her new duties with the same tone she always used in their conversations: devout of love but with a hint of pride.

After which things had changed a little bit. Hoster’s  mother had “Southern ambitions.” The bane of House Stark, to hear his father tell it. Lord Walder Frey of the Crossing had lost another wife. This one to the birthing bed, much to the fortune of the poor girl and the misfortune of his sweet sister.

Late Walder, as almost everyone called him, wanted a new bride before _“That last one has been eaten by worms and become useless.”_  His sister may be a bastard, but she was the daughter of the Warden of the North who was the ruler of the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. In such circumstances a bastard could easily take the name they longed for their entire life, only to lose it to the marriage cloak.

It was not like any Lord was eager to give away his prized child to that vile old leech, anyway. So it was decided that it would be Lyarra who was going to be the next Lady Frey. To be defiled and raped and toyed with while her family was safe in Winterfell and ripped the fruits of her sacrifice.

Even her father didn’t voice any complaints. He looked like he had failed, but was not man enough to admit it. So here Hoster was, in front of a shabby cottage ready to meet with the Stranger, better known as Ramsay Snow.

Ramsay Snow

He didn’t like the little Lord. For one he was too self-righteous, and for another, he could always see through him. It must be some talent, or maybe he was the only one to inherit his mother’s wits among his siblings. It mattered little for it didn’t change the fact that he was annoying in his attempts to be _good._

**_Goody two shoe Hoster, always there to champion the weak._ **

Look at him now. Walking up towards his front door in clothes which were worth more than all that was on the property. No guards in sight, confident that Ramsay wouldn’t dare lay a hand on him. Worse yet, the little cunt was right. For now, anyway.

The little shit knocked once, twice and kept hitting the door. So the Stark knew the Snow was home. There was no hiding now, might as well come out and get yelled for…whatever little Hoster had figured out Ramsay had done recently.

Ramsay smiled his “frog like” smile, the one little Red hated most and opened the door, bowing down with more than a couple of unnecessary hand gestures and a lot of flopping. He could see the eye twitch the small boy was beginning to develop and it almost lessened the humiliation the bastard of Bolton felt as he had to great with respect someone seven years his junior. **_Almost._**

“To what do I owe this lovely visit, my Lord? Perhaps you are here to invite me out to hawk or hunt? Or could it be that you bring me news from dear Lyarra?”

Ah, there it was. The fury that no ten years old should have. That even he hadn’t possessed at the time. And wasn’t that funny? Little shining knight Hoster more wretched than his younger self?

“I did come here because of Lyarra. If she is dear to you. If you still want to pursue her. Well, then we need to talk, future good brother of mine.”

Well, that was unexpected, Ramsay had to admit he was shocked. He honestly believed the boy before him would flay himself alive and eat his skin before he even entertained the thought of his sister and what he considered a monster together. Until death did them part, no less.

Must be a ploy of the child. Make him speak his mind and then tattle on him. Clever little highborn wretch! How could Lyarra have any blood ties with the lordling? She, who was like him! Well, bar the need to hurt others. But he was going to sway her to see things his way one day. He was going to show her how fun it was to dominate over others.

For now, he needed to be careful. Watch his tongue for anything damning and control himself least he did something rash.

“Ramsay, Lyarra is getting married. To someone even worse than you! I need you to listen now; please stay silent until I finish.”

**_Silent? I should be ringing your scrawny little neck for coming._ **

“Walder Frey of the Crossing is a vile whoremonger! There are rumors he is defiling the corpse of his former wife!”

**_Hm, this Walder and I could get along. Or not, highborn shits smell the same._ **

“Mother wants Lya to control him somehow, but we both know she won’t be able to. She will be miserable her entire life!”

**_Shouldn't you be telling this to your darling Lady mother, little Lord? Or maybe to noble Lord Stark? Why come to the powerless bastard you love to hate?_ **

“So I ask you, nay, I beg you. Please, Ramsay, for her sake do what you do best and kill Walder Frey.”

**_Kill for someone else?_ **

“I know you are incapable of love. I can see it in your eyes. But I also know you do care for Lya.”

**_How could I not, when we are the same?_ **

 “You have found a kinship with her. You value it.”

**_Stating the obvious much, little Hoster?_ **

“ She has done so much for you already. Hidden you always from justice and tended to your wounds when your victims fought back.”

**_How do you know? Where did I leave my dagger?_ **

 “Can’t you please prevent hers? And put that away. If I die, you will follow me shortly after.”

**_Observant little…_ **

Setting down the dagger had been arguably one of the hardest things the Snow had done in recent years. But he did it somehow. He sat, he smiled, he stayed silent and listened.

The very next morning he headed towards the Twins. It took him a fortnight to get there, even with the beautiful horse his baby brother, as he calls him now as part of their agreement, helped him acquire.

When he reached the bridge that never failed to take its due, he introduced himself with his actual name. His darling baby brother wanted him to take the name Tohrren, but Ramsay could taste bile in his mouth at the very thought of admitting that he knelt.

**_But I did. Little brother and I should go hunting. Lyarra doesn’t need to know._ **

It was quite fortunate that he arrived when he did. Few could skin game as well or fast as him, and they needed to prepare for a wedding that will host two Lord Paramount and their entourage.

He was appreciated so much, that he was offered an “ _honest living and lodging boy, even after Old Walder plucks his new wife’s flower.”_ Little did they know there would be nothing of the sort and they will be just as busy for the preparation of the funeral pyre.

_Lyarra, Lyarra,_

_Sweet child of Snow._

_Mama may hate you no longer,_

_Your siblings dear may be keeping you safe and happy._

_But from the shadows, Lyarra,_

_He is watching; his blades he keeps sharp._

_Not for you, Lyarra,_

_But for whom?_


	3. The wolf, the hunter, and the flock.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weddings are a time of cheer! They herald a new begging for all. But sometimes the grooms are unworthy of a bride, and the brides are unworthy of a pure white dress.

Ramsay Snow

A young man skipped along the halls on his way to the kitchen. To the inhabitants of the castle, he was known as “Joyful Snow.” There wasn’t a thing that could make him angry. Not even Old Lord Frey could get a rise out of him.

The inhabitants of the Twins had come to love him in the past few weeks leading up to the wedding of the Lord. Always helpful, never complaining, never wasting time when doing a task.

So trustworthy was he that people started to wonder where his new quarters will be, for surely he would stay and make their day brighter with his japes and laughter.

But there was one thing they did notice about him that seemed a little bit odd. When the young bastard born would smile, there was a glint in his eyes. One promising something, but no one wanted to think about what it could be.

Why should they? The cooks in the keep didn’t complain when Ramsay would switch places with them and help when they became too tired.

The scullery maids were grateful when they didn’t have to enter Walder Frey’s room to empty his chamber pot and exit it with a baby in their belly. The horse master didn’t mind that there was someone who would willingly tend to the horses instead of him.

So when everyone is oh so very grateful, they close their eyes and refuse to care about any unseen intents. They do not notice when certain herbs go missing from the Maester’s stash. They don’t notice when the horses start to become lethargic. They don’t notice when all of the knives in the kitchen start to become sharper overnight. When the scum in the dungeons stops complaining there is not a single whisper. They don’t notice the pack of wild dogs in the surrounding forest. The newly made hunting trails.

All the while the hunter skips merely around the little lambs. He bows respectfully to the Old Ram when he must; he flirts with the ones who possess the nicest pelts from which he would make a fine cloak for his Lady love. He herds them all and waits for her to come to him, to the feast he had already prepared in her honor. He waits and smiles and counts the days when the lambs will bleat no more.

Lyarra Snow

The day she learned she was to marry an Old Lord she felt oddly empty. She should have been broken over the fact, but it didn’t upset her in the slightest. This was one of those things that simply was to be, just like Lady Catelyn always told her.

Lady Catelyn, though, promised her to become one of the richest women in Westeros. The Lady Stark had sat her down and told her of House Frey. How they built a bridge and fortified it with not one, but two castles, hence the name: The Twins. She assured her this House always collected its due.

Now Lyarra will be one of them. What was she due, as their new Lady? Surely not the msany heirs of Walder Frey, not his mistresses, or his disgrace. A man like him should have died a long time ago; she thinks to herself as she collects all of Ramsay’s girls and sends them to their master.

 Nobles were supposed to have the power, so why should they abide by duty?

_“They are charged with protecting their people. Their power comes from them, and it must be willingly given.”_

Her father would say this. It almost made her pause when she was picking winter roses for her bridal bouquet. Her conscious grew silent at the last minute, as she was handing her choice to her step mother in full view of her father. Let him see her wearing his beloved sister’s flowers in her hair as he gives her away to the same end. Let him be hurt, for she couldn’t feel the emotion anymore and it would be proper if someone were to grieve at her farce of a wedding.

She smiled as she hugged Robb. She wasn’t upset with him and yet he was looking down at his feet, face full of the guild. They had been as close as twins, once. Eachothers shadows before her mentor had separated them in the years when she hated her still.

Now she supposed she still loved him, she still cared. But during her lessons, she had been confronted with the cold reality of the world, and she found she simply couldn’t bring herself to care as much as she used to before she started dreaming of ice monsters, and crows begun whispering in her ear.

As she passed Hoster, she gave him a bright smile. Ramsay had told her everything, of course. Had she asked her fellow Snow for help, especially the type he enjoyed, he would have given her his word in a heartbeat. But for little Hoster to go without fear where Ramsay liked to play was touching. It showed her that someone cared more about her than even themselves and she would forever be grateful for it.

Arya was fuming at the injustice of it all. She was another favorite of hers. She had even come to a hunting trip with her once. A tame one, with hares as prey, and had laughed all the while Ramsay and She chased after the rodents. Even the girls had taken a liking to the only trueborn Lady Stark, and that meant that she could come with them again as far as her fellow Snow was concerned.

Little Bran was sleeping and the unborn baby Stark was restless again. Kicking in his mother’s belly as if he too wanted to give Lyarra a farewell. She much doubted she would have the chance to get to know these two siblings as well as she did the rest.

She would be the sole ruler of the bridge that decided if people could trade or starve around the Trident and that would take up most of her time from now on, she supposed.

Eddard Stark

His niece was the spitting image of her mother. Stark futures with Stark coloring. Stronger than in any of his children, indeed strong enough to hide any traces of Rhaegar. The Wolf blood had given way to the blood of the Dragon when it came to her manner of behaving, much to his regret.

He had started to fear she was going to become like her grandfather when she was but a child. Lya had held on to her Stark honor for as long as she could, but these days she was more fire than ice.

He had promised Lyanna he would protect the child, but how could he guard her against herself? There were rumors of the Ramsay boy she liked to be around. Rumors were flying about Lyarra as well.

_“She is a witch.”_

The inhabitants of Wintertown would say about her.

_“She wishes for Winterfell.”_

His bannermen would murmur behind his back.

_“The child is ill still despite my efforts, my love.”_

His wife will lament in the dead of night, already thinking how to salvage what remains of the ruin that was once a girl full of joy.

There was only one way he could think of to uphold his promise. He would give his daughter, _niece_ , leave to acquire the power she craved. He will be the Quiet Wolf once more and close his eyes.

Roslin Frey

She had stayed by poor Joyeuse’s side until the very end. The girl had been but a child when she married her father. More a friend to her than a stepmother. Roslin thought she must be the only one who grieved the former Lady of the Crossing.

There was the talk of another child bride on the way before even the funeral ceremony had begun. This one will be a legitimized daughter of a Great Lord; the whisperers kept saying.

Her father at first had been insulted that he was to marry a bastard, but the promise of this Lyarra’s dowry along with the rumors of her beauty had placated him somewhat.

They had received word that the Starks won’t all come. The Lady Catelyn was yet again with a babe and deemed unfit to travel. The new Lady’s half-siblings were apparently too young for such a journey, so that left the girl’s own Lord father to witness the “happy” day.

A messenger had been send in front of the main party weeks ago to announce that the bride was on her way. Back then the two lone wolfs had been said to be staying in the restored Moat Cailin. Roslin herself had thought that it would be impossible to bring it back to its old glory, it being more ruins and situated in marshland, but it seems that Tully gold and Northen craftsmen could do miracles in ten years.

If they wanted to reach the Twins before the rains, she supposed they would have to pass by the King’s road, rather than by river and make a stop at the elusive Greywater Watch, as it was rumored they would do.

As she passed back and forth, the Rosbey in Frey colors wondered about her stepmother to be. Would she be as miserable as all the rest? Would she take a lover as the scandalous dornish first wife of Lord Walder, the only one who’s bed he was barred from?

Maybe Lyarra would be hopeful as the Tyrell off sprout and decide to wait until her father passes away only to get agitated and lose her head and that of her accomplice?

Or perhaps she will smile at father all the while sending assassins after his head, knowing full well she will always be protected by her uncle’s gold. Well, Joy had nearly succeeded in her machinations, but the one thing her uncle Tywin Lannister hadn’t been able to save her from had been the childbirth fever.

Lyarra could be a kind soul like her mother, or the sickly child they had buried but a moon ago. Left to the worms before people even had the chance to see her for the person she could have been.

Little did she know a fortnight after her musings the object of her interest would arrive. The first impression of the northern Lady was that the girl was a wolf carved of the coldest ice one could imagine.

The first thing she had done upon arrival was to request to greet all of her future daughters. Among which was Roslin herself, along with her half-sister and even the bastards. An intended jape made by her father towards Lord Eddard Stark.

While the Quiet Wolf fumed silently at the small army of women that had gathered in the courtyard, Lyarra Snow was practically beaming. Asking for their names, their pastimes, making arrangements to spend time with every one of them.

It was heartwarming to see that their new stepmother was so accepting of them.

Walder Frey

This bastard was a sweet smelling rose, his for the taking. He was going to get japed at for taking another high bastard as a wife, but he would let them all have their fun. When the rains flood the river, they would all be back to groveling at his feet for safe passage, with their ugly hags behind them, while he would have a beautiful mare to show off.

Speaking of mares, this one was oddly talkative. All of Walder’s wives except his first one, and had that spitfire stayed with him he would have had only one wife for all his life, knew their place and kept their silence.

This one had so many questions.

“Lord Frey, how many battlements do the Twins have?”

“Lord Frey, wouldn’t it be better if a town was allowed to flourish by the bridge? The townsfolk would be useful for the upkeep.”

“Lord Frey, isn’t it amusing how almost every one of your heirs names their children after you? How many Walders live here?”

That one had legitimately drawn a chuckle from him. He had been tempted to tell her that the Walda’s were in far greater numbers, but that could have been a lie. It's not like he bothered to learn the names of everyone who had sprung from his seed.

He could see himself plotting with this girl. She had a mind nearly as sharp as his own. The infighting he had been carefully nourishing and hiding from the rest of Westeros has been unraveled by a slip of a girl a day or maybe two after her arrival.

If she wanted to turn his embers into a roaring fire and clean the path for their future children, then who was he to stay in the way of a mother’s agenda? All of his current spawns had plotted to kill him at one point or another. Maybe the new ones will be a little bit smarter and prove themselves worthy of becoming Lords of the Crossing. Or not, children were one disappointment after another in his experience.

On the day of his wedding, he had ordered to send the Lady a new dress. Her dowry had warranted a gift, and the letter that she was now a Stark of Winterfell arrived just in time. He was in one of his rare generous moods, getting married to a beautiful woman who could at least hide her distress and was trying to make the most of her situation.

It was a good day to be Walder Frey.

The lone survivor

It had been a great honor for her to be chosen to be the ring bearer. The bride was oddly wearing white. She had thought she would be clad in Stark colors, but this gown suited her still. A little bit too close to the figure than it was proper, though.

The bride was smiling behind her veil. Had even squeezed Lord Walder’s hand of her accord. In contrast of her merriment, Lord Stark looked like the Stranger had visited his chambers overnight and left with his soul.

She had never seen someone look so angry and sad at the same time before. Almost as if ready to tear someone limb from limb. It was doubtful the great Lord would resort to violence. He had eaten their bread and salt, and everyone knew guest right were secret in the North.

Once the vows were exchanged, her father kissed her new stepmother, groping her all the while. Strangely Lyarra Frey didn’t mind. Perhaps she liked older men? Stranger things have happened in Westeros before.

The couple was seated at the high table, with the bride’s father being positioned at her left. All the while Ramsay Snow, a new servant, would merely skip around them and refill their plates and goblets.

Rumor had it that it was Ramsay himself that did most of the seasoning of the dishes as poor old Hal, the castle cook, had been found in a ditch stinking of wine and very much dead.

The food smelled as well as it looked. Swans in butter and sprinkled generously with pepper. Mouton chops that would melt in the mouth but leave a slightly fresh after taste, not an ounce of the ward on them to be found. Whole chickens wrapped in bacon and filled with nuts and delicious smelling mushrooms. It was truly a feast worthy of a wedding.

So fine that her sister,  Walda, had to excuse herself to her chambers because she overate. She was sent away with the good whishes and understanding of their new stepmother and the japes that their father had directed at both Walda and Ramsay, saying that the bastard wanted to steal one of his daughters using her stomach.

Once again the joke had been met with a frog like smile and a polite response from the northern bastard.

As Ramsay continued to skip around the couple, the young Frey could see that he always had something witty to say to the new Lady Frey. For all that she was given the honor of carrying the rings, the curly headed child was deemed unworthy of seating on the same table as her father and as such couldn’t hear what was being said. That was a pity, Joyful Snow always said the funniest things and never failed to make her giggle.

In fact, he seemed like the one who was enjoying himself the most. Him and the Lady. Maybe as a formal bastard, she was enjoying the attention? All of the girls in the tower had whispered that Lyarra had been kind to them during their meetings. She would sing and sew with them and braid the hair of the younger ones.

The ring bearer concluded her new stepmother was sent to make their lives easier. A reward from the seven for all that they had endured so far. As she was thinking all of this, she didn’t notice that Ramsay had moved closer. Before she even knew there was a small lemon cake, probably pilfered from the high table, placed in front of her.

Her eyes grew as saucers, and she was quick to snatch it and eat it before anyone sees. From the place of honor, she could see Lyarra smiling knowingly in her direction and nodding to Ramsay. Probably sending him off with another gift for another one of her new daughters.

By the time it was time for the bedding ceremony all the children had such gifts delivered to them. It made them all giddy, loud and prone to fits of activity. Among which were dancing, something that made even their Lord father laugh with mirth.

At some point, the Lady Lyarra had dragged him on the podium and was now making a grand show of twirling around the old groom. She would sometimes switch with one of the dancing children, picking them up and dancing back and forth as they giggled.

It had been a lovely wedding; the ring bearer concluded as she tried to stay awake in the arms of her father as he was laughing and making them go in circles. A little bit away Lyarra Frey had linked hands with Roslin and Olyvar, having the blushing lad switch between his older sister and their stepmother as he attempted to dance with them both.

It was indeed fun, but her head grew heavy, and she yawned. That was all the cue her father needed to hand her over to a nearby servant and call for the bedding so he can make her new mama a “proper woman,” whatever that meant.

 Then the men took Lady Lyarra and led her away to her papa's chambers. There were a lot of strange words exchanged that the little girl couldn’t understand. But grown ups were weird, so she left it at that.

She rested her head on the servant's shoulders and allowed herself to be taken back to the room she shared with some of her other sisters. Little did she know that of the five occupants that fell asleep near her that night, she would be the only one to wake.

Lyarra Snow

Lord Walder's children were all simple, she concluded. Their father had some cunning, but his overbearing pride diminished its usefulness considerably. By the time she had been carried to the chamber, only her nightshirt had remained.

She knew she didn't have much time, so she threw even that away and searched for the small bottle of poison mixed with the essence that Ramsay had told her he had hidden under the bed. Sprinkling her whole body generously she laid herself on the bed cover and spread her legs.

She would have to be bedded and certainly not by Ramsay. He had raged at that and had promised he would help her wash away all of the traces of the old fool. The Maester would recognize if Old Walder hadn't dipped his member in her and then her marriage and rights as Lady of the Crossing will disappear as fast as Walder Frey's breath when the poison set in.

The old Ram had been predictably pleased with her willingness and hadn't wasted his time. With every bite, kiss or action he was speeding up his death. As he finally tired, and Lyarra had to admit that it wasn't natural for someone to last this long at that age, he wrapped his hands around her and murmured his approval laced with sweet nothings in her ear.

She snuggled into his embrace. Laying on top of soiled sheets, her thighs and his member covered in her blood, becoming happier as his hands grew colder, his breath ragged and finally he became a dead weight around her. That was the moment Lya allowed herself to fall asleep and she had the most wonderfull rest she had in a long time, despite the distant sounds of barking and screaming coming from the surrounding forest. Notwithstanding the absence of response from the castle itself.

_Lyarra, Lyarra,_

_Sweet child of Snow,_

_Wedded and bedded you sleep tonight,_

_Lyarra, a corpse’s bride you are._

_Full of terrors is the Dark,_

_All of them by your orders released._

_But do you think, Lyarra,_

_That it would always be so?_

**_Authors note:_ **

**_So, I noticed that the timeline might be a bit confusing. So here how it is:_ **

**_Lyarra is 15 here, Ramsay is 17 and Hoster is 10 years old. This all happens 2 years before the King's visit to Winterfell, which will still occur. Old Walder is, well he is dead, doesn't matter anymore._ **

**_As for Ramsay's hunts, Lyarra knows about them. She partakes when the pray isn't human, and she helps hide Ramsay when it is, and she helps him feed and take care of his girls, you know the ones Sansa fed him to in the show. But she doesn't get her kicks out of cruelty that will gain her nothing._ **

**_When you think of Lyarra's psychological profile, think of a sociopath. She is detached but follows certain rules and expectation when they can further her ambitions. She isn't necessarily evil; her moral compass got stolen by Bloodraven when he kept speaking to her as a child. Not that it was what he intended, but things like that do happen when you mess with people's heads._ **

**_Well, I hope you enjoyed. I’ll try to update next week, but I make no promises because Lyarra will have a lot of work in the next chapter._ **


	4. Believers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even those who are in a nightmare have hope. Of the sun's rays and bird's songs. For the inhabitants of the Twins, hope is a pipe dream. They can only find safety as believers.

Elora Turren

Being a servant wasn’t bad, on most days. But this was not most days. Elora hadn’t been able to sleep, huddled behind her bed and trying to block the screams.

The highborn had gotten drunk; there was yelling then someone had insulted Black Walder, resulting in a fight. Some of the men had pulled knives at each other; blood spilled freely. It was almost like they were all possessed! They had even raised their hands at the women!

When the blood began to flow freely, Elora had taken the first chance she got and ran. As fast as she could and past the guards, who tried to stop it but there was nothing they could do as it was their masters that went berserk.

The ones who still had their wits attempted to leave the hall only to be faced with pure chaos. The horses were running scared, chased by dogs black as night. Almost as if being herded towards the retreating nobles. From the window of her hiding place, she saw a small boy being run over by a destrier. After that, she wanted to see no more and hid.

How could this have happened? It was such a beautiful wedding! Everyone was full of cheer for once. And where was the old Lord? Had he went deep between his new wife’s legs?! He could put an end to all of this madness!

She was whispering to herself, trying to calm herself down when the frantic knocking started. Small fists were battling at the door as if their owner’s life depended on it. Elora could hear a child’s high pitch voice begging to be let in. She could go and open the door and risk the chaos outside, or she could stay huddled beneath the bed.

But what would that make her? She got up and carefully crawled to the door, opening it and snatching the child at the other side fast before someone saw her. The horror the poor servant saw would haunt her until the end of her days.

There was blood everywhere. The little girl had it spilling from her mouth, her eyes, her ears even. Poison was the first thing that came to mind. Elora had been one of the few who was deemed fit enough to help the Maester, and so she knew that charcoal was the sick child's only hope. 

Without wasting any time she picked a big piece of a burning log. Her hands burned, but all she could think of was the whimpers of the child. She dropped it into a pot full of water and waited until the steam stopped coming out.

Taking it out and forcing it down the girl’s thought had been one of the hardest things she has ever done. The gagging and the screaming had her grip the ends of her hair afterward.

When the child had started to purge herself from the foul liquid that caused her pain Elora had thought for a moment she would copy the action. Instead, she managed to find some strength in herself and patted the little thing on her back and cleaned the blood as best she could.

When the nightmare was all over, she drew the small form into an embrace and fell asleep. Only to be awakened by the terrifying screams of the new Lady Frey, who had woken up in a Lord Walder’s embrace, only to find him dead with disgusting puss dripping from his mouth and on her naked body.

Ramsay Snow

The sun was shining, people were dying, everything was going to his girls, and he was giddy with excitement.  Skipping past the whimpering form of a highborn who made him clean out his chamber pot only the day before he continued toward Lya’s chambers.

He had promised he would help her get cleaned, after all. He knew just how. First, he was going to throw the Old Ram from the window and down into the river. The thought of the man sinking deep bellow brought a smile on Ramsay’s face. Yes, let the river wash the nasty old fool away.

Then he would prepare a bath for Lyarra. A nice hot one, it was not like he would skin her tainted flesh, scrubbing it clean should suffice. Oh, and he will purge the Twins from all the blood and the decay. The servants still trusted him, most of them were in shock from the **_festivities_** of the previous night. They should be easy to rally into an organized force and put to the tasks they did day by day.

A scream broke him of his musings and made him move faster. This was their signal, a way for her to call him so he can chase away the maids that would surely be bombarding her with questions and their condolences.

When he entered her chamber the sight that greeted him was the one he had predicted. The surviving daughters of Walder Frey, all deemed too dull, too unseemly to awaken any form of compassion from the lords of the Riverlands, well with some notable exceptions, surrounded their new mother.

Lyarra was trying to reassure them, but her efforts were for naught. His Lya wasn’t as good an actress as she liked to believe. With the softness of her voice, her calmness despite the chaos she has woken to, she was slowly giving herself away. And he couldn’t let that happen.

“My Lady Frey, forgive my intrusion, but the other servants will need your guidance on the matter of disposing of the consequences of the wedding feast.”

Lyarra raised her head, and she looked straight at him. There was a slight disappointment to her gaze. She had wanted painless deaths for most, especially the children. One of the lambs that bleated worriedly into her ear must have told her of pools of dark blood and small doll-like figures laying peacefully in their beds, never to wake up.

He answered her disapproval with his smile. The one she knew meant he did not regret a thing. Then again he never did, she should be aware by now that he seldom did exactly as she asked him to.

Lyarra relented after a while and lowered her gaze.

“The bodies need to be buried, the surviving members of my household must be accounted for. A food tester is to be employed from the surrounding village, no, make it a dozen testers. I will have no one eat before it has been deemed safe! As for my Lord husband, I would like for servants to be brought in here and take the necessary precautions for his final rest.”

Happy that his orders were somewhat vague, a dozen testers, no one eats until its safe. She might as well have told him to use poisons that would take more time to do their jobs. As he was exiting the room, he bowed to Lord Stark, who probably ran from his quarters all the way to his daughter's side as soon as he heard the screams. 

The man had a grim determination as he held his valyrian steel broadsword. How did it sit with his honor to hear all that screaming, some of it the wailing of women and children, and do nothing? Could he still sleep at night in the embrace of his Lady wife after seeing his own eldest daughter in the arms of a decaying corpse, one that he had given her away to? In the end, all the highborn smelled the same, thought the same things in the same way. It didn’t matter which one of them he would hunt, they all deserved it.

Lyarra Frey nee Stark (Snow)

Waking up was disgusting, dealing with Ramsay when he was in one of his bloodlusts had been risky. Being faced with coldness by her father should have broken her heart, but whatever was left of it before the wedding must have died this very morning.

Lyarra hadn’t wasted her time in getting cleaned and then donning on a simple black gown. It wasn’t one of her own, but then again a bride to be hadn’t needed black clothing. Fortunately, one of her new pets, as Ramsay like to refer to the girls she wanted to be spared, had given her one of her own.

And so, after a dreadful breaking of the fast in her chambers she headed out to survey the damage, her father a constant and protective shadow behind her, ready to defend her, even after everything she has done.

The servants were understandably nervous. Her Lord father’s presence was probably the only thing that was keeping them from running away. The guards looked half-mad from what they have seen. Good, she thought to herself, if they were of a mind with Ramsay he wouldn't have them removed.

 She continued her inspection and gave orders for the blood to be scrubbed, the children to be burned along with their beds in fear of an infection spreading.

The smallfolk were fearful they would fall ill and meet the unfortunate sweetling’s fate, and the lifeless doll's parents were either in the bellies of Ramsay's dogs or had their brains splattered on the road. In such a case, there was simply no one left to argue.

As they were building the pyre, and it had been decided that even the older Frey’s were going to be put to rest in this way, a servant had approached her with a sickly child by her side. Lyarra thought to dismiss her and speak with her after the funeral proceedings were concluded, but then she took a closer look at the child.

There, under the filth and stench was Shirei Frey, her little ring bearer. The child she has doomed to Ramsay’s non-existent mercies. The girl, despite all his efforts, had survived. If a hunter couldn’t catch his prey, then the crafty child deserved to be alive. More so now, as Ramsay looked like a kicked puppy for his failure at destroying all of the unknown factors in the Frey household.

She supposed, as the child clutched to her skirts and sobbed, that she should feel guilty. If there were people willing to mourn for House Frey perhaps it hadn’t deserved to be reduced to ashes,  but no, she felt nothing, as per usual.

The next morning she and her remaining daughters were at the main gate, bright and early, ready to send off  Lord Eddard Stark back to Winterfell. As his party became smaller and smaller, she wondered briefly what would Lady Stark say now, when her plans had been forgotten in favor of Lyarra’s? Would her mentor disapprove or caution her to guard herself?

And what of the rest of her family? Would they ever come and visit her, or would her actions forever burn their links to her? At any rate, it was useless to dwindle on this now. She had made Ramsay castellan and put him in charge of keeping the order. Already she heard of missing people and a fear of the “illness” that had taken her Frey relatives returning.

Every morning she would take little Shirei and lead her favorite daughter to the main hall where she spent the day speaking with one minor Riverlands lordling after another, all of them claiming kinship to Walder Frey and demanding she gives them what was rightfully theirs.

Lyarra did give them their due, bandits were aplenty on the roads, now more than ever when Old Walder wasn’t there to pay them off, so they won’t disturb his trade. It took very little, _“I just skinned his pinky, Lya! You should have heard him beg!”,_ to convince them to redirect their ventures, so they follow the same path as the new Lady Frey’s ambitions.

The puppets danced to her soft tunes, and those who refused had their strings plucked by her dear castellan. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise then when she woke up one fine morning, untangled herself from her Snow’s side and found a host of knights with the Baratheon crowned stag and the lion of Lannister banners flying proudly in the wind.

Propriety dictated that she greet her guests, for she refused to think of them as an enemy force preparing to starve them.

Cersei Lannister

The Twins looked over the Trident, guarding the only safe passage. It had taken her quite a bit of effort to persuade Robbert to let her ride here with her golden son. She convinced him by stating that learning to use shock tactics for skirmishes and laying a siege would be best by actively giving commands.

Her fat whoremongering husband had stubbornly tried to defend the Lady Lyarra, for she was his best friend’s little girl and he couldn’t even think that saint Eddard could father a murderer.

Cersei knew better than that. And so here she was, in her golden splendor, slightly behind her eldest, ready to order the slaughter of everyone in the ugly glorified bridge.

The horns blew once, announcing her arrival. A second time and rather than seeing archers taking their positions on the ramparts, the main gate started to open slowly. Surely the bastard girl wasn’t going to try to have them run through by knight?

By the time the third horn blew, the gates have opened fully to show a haunting picture. There, the whole household was, lined up as if nothing was wrong and this was only a visit. The young widow stood in a simple black gown, an offering of bread and salt held in both her hands.

 Behind her was a handsome dark haired youth with the most unnerving blue eyes the Queen has ever seen. The expression he wore could have past off as respectful on any other face, maybe fooled any other person, but the golden lioness had seen it on the face of her firstborn as he stood over the split belly of a cat, marveling the unborn kittens.

If that wasn’t enough warning that she should have forced Robbert to come with her, and thus bring Jamie to protect their children and herself, then the looks that the surviving daughters of Walder Frey were giving her did.

They were distrustful, but of her, the supposed champion of their birthrights. Towards their stepmother, they held only admiration. After the rumors of the Snowy wedding, Cersei had believed the girls would be mistreated. If that was not the case, then the Lady Frey before her had enough sense to use them as a shield.

Joffrey was disgruntled that there was to be no battle. They wouldn’t be able to explain the hostilities after being let in and offered guest rights. The song the widow sang to them was a simple one, but all of the servants and the smallfolk sang similar tunes:

_“When my Lord husband passed away there was no one to keep the peace, Your Grace.”_

Passed away, Cersei thought, was putting it into very mild terms. From what Pycelle had told her of the possible poisons used they involved the dissolving of the intestines, paralysis, and hallucinations. Hardly what one can call “passing away,” “being dragged away to the seven hells was more plausible.”

_“The Lords and Ladies despaired but chose to hide in their castles instead of seeing to the needs of their people. As the new Lady of the Crossing, I couldn’t just leave my step-daughters behind in the chaos.”_

She was painting a beautiful picture, Cersei had to admit that as more of the same drivel escaped the young girl, the people were staring at her with compassion. Selfless, demure and beautiful. Younger than Cersei and a northern beauty. Maybe it was best that she hadn’t brought Robbert with her after all.

Joffrey looked ready to cause a scene beside her. Thinking quickly, she accepted all of the “excuses” with a smile and asked for a bedchamber to be prepared for the night. If Cersei had been a guest at any other castle, she would have made an effort to be less demanding. This one, however, was ruled by a bastard wife of an Old leech, she could stand to show less courtesy in these circumstances.

So sure she was on the promise of safety that the bread and salt gave her she forgot the unease that the blue eyes of the castellan inspired in her. She was protected, and he was beneath her notice, him being a northern bastard-born savage just like the mistress of the castle.

What she had no way of knowing, was that said mistress had seen the murder in those sky blue orbs as well. Had felt a slight shiver run down her spine for the first time since she decided to indulge her lover and his activities. Guest rights were sacred, but so were the hunts. Only if the prey survived did it deserved to be alive.

_Lyarra, Lyarra,_

_Sweet child of Snow._

_Stone are your walls,_

_Smoking are your graves,_

_Water rose and met the Lion’s roar,_

_Will it be drowned, Lyarra?_

_Or will it wake to pounce on you again?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jen176, I hope you don't mind I took your name for the wedding. I really liked it and it did fit. To everyone who took the time to read this fic, comment and leave kudos: Thank you all, you brighten my day!


	5. Chaos reigns supreme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During a siege, the defender waits for that moment, that one moment that can save them from disaster. The attackers wait too, but for the food to run out.

Joffrey Baratheon

He was going to kill the Frey bitch and her mad dog! He was going to have her paraded before the people of King’s Landing and then behead her! The damn dog was smiling with a noose around his neck and throwing japes at the Hound.

On the other side of the blasted castle was a northern host led by a bloody twelve-year-old claiming to be a Stark of Moat Cailin and demanding the right to treat with him on behalf of his damned sister.

It had all started after their arrival at the Twins. The castellan had looked at them like meat from the start but there shouldn’t have been any way for him to disobey his Lady and attack them! But as it turned out the Lady of the castle had no control over her wild beast and liked to let him run wild whenever he pleased.

And that Ramsay did run wild. He had the audacity to chase **_him,_** around the corridors with Joffrey’s **_own_** crossbow. Ramsay had managed to hit him, the crown prince, in the shoulder, but before the castellan could do more the Hound had appeared, only to prove himself useless as the insane dog set the draperies on fire and thus prompting his sworn shield to swing **_him_** over his shoulders and jump off a bloody window and down the ice-cold river below.

They had nearly drowned! Ah, drowning. How he wished he can simply thrown the ginger empty headed child in the water and hold his head beneath it until he would stop trying to make excuses for his family.

A lot of empty words were coming out of the boy's mouth. Joffrey’s favorite lines were:

_Lady Lyarra couldn’t have known this would happen, Your Grace._

_There is no need for violence, Your Grace._

But there was every need, Joffrey reasoned back each time! His mother was inside an impregnable castle with the mistress of a man who hunted people for sport! The thought to start chasing around the ginger with a crossbow did pass through the prince’s head, but to do so when said the annoying child had an army on the other side of the Trident and a possible safe crossing was something the blonde boy was unwilling to risk.

Still, a Baratheon could never appear weak. _Ours is the fury._ Those were his words. His father would think him craven if he would just lay siege to the castle and wait outside while Joffrey’s own mother was held hostage inside.

With that thought in mind, he had ser Meryn Trant knock the Stark boy unconscious and then put him in chains. That was what traitors deserved! When this Hoster came to he would have him stand by the castellan with a noose around his neck. Let's see how long will this rebellion last!

A little bit away Ramsay’s smile dropped. Little Hoster had become quite understanding of his hobby, to the point they had hunted some rapers together. It simply wouldn’t do for his baby brother to be handled like this. Someone was going to lose an arm and a leg and Ramsay knew just who it was. With this thought in mind, his smile returned.

Lyarra Frey nee Stark (Snow)

Little Shirei had asked her this morning if they were all going to die. A strange question coming from a child who had already faced death. Lyarra had just smiled and continued brushing the girl’s hair. There was no point in answering rhetorical questions.

In retrospect, she had brought this on herself. Now both Ramsay and Hoster were captives, her father was amassing a host to try and force the prince to lift the siege and she spends her time in the same room with the Queen.

A woman who had tried to murder Lyarra more than once already, her most recent attempt resulting in an ugly slash along Lya’s arm which simply would not heal much to her frustration and the Queen’s satisfaction.

Enforcing rations, even for the smirking blonde, had taken away some of the enjoyment out of the lioness’s small success. But Lyarra knew that in the end, she would be the loser in this. The king himself had sent her a raven with an ultimatum filled with the usual threats such as burning of the smallfolk’s homes, plunder and so on and so forth.

Right now Lyarra didn’t much care for that. Her brother and her lover were hanging on a noose like some common criminals. Well, she supposed they were criminals, but still.

To add to that her dreams and that infernal crow had reappeared once more. Always whispering of the blood of the dragon coming together under one roof. Well unless the mad old man had found a way to deposit the exiled Targaryen royals in her keep then the Lady of the Crossing simply couldn’t see that happening.

Lya had tried to ignore the normal ramblings. Had turned a blind eye to the frozen city that had terrified her in her youth. Broke her fast with a smile and tasted Shirei’s food just in case Cersei Lannister tried to hurt her via the child she was obviously attached to.

Her fear had solid foundations, two of Walder’s daughters had passed away in the weeks following the beginning of the siege. For the small ray of light that had survived one of Ramsay’s hunts to do the same was unacceptable.

Lya was disturbed from her musings by the Queen. Back and forth, like a caged lion, she went. Maybe even going mad from her gilded cage. It would be funny, Lyarra thinks, that by the end of this madness the Twins were filled with nobles fuming at the mouth.

Ramsay would be happy and skip around with his new playmates, her daughters would smile from time to time, the prince would stop yelling that he was going to send Hoster over the bridge back to his host with a trebuchet. Hoster would stop with him yelling at the prince and calling him  “Blondie”. And they would all hold hands while a crow sings of springs while they were at it.

Wishful thinking, the wine was getting to her. Cersei Lannister had started drinking, heavily. Had even managed to make Lyarra forget her usual distaste for the beverage. So here they were, the golden Queen with a goblet passing the length of the room and retelling her life to her slightly amused captor.

Seeing as Lyarra was going to die anyway she too had decided to divulge some details to her oddly likable, but homicidal captive. Honestly, it was like dealing with a highborn female Ramsay. Constant trouble no matter how one looked at it but fascinating to watch.

Their conversations would sometimes be interrupted by loud clangs on their windows. Corpses throwned at Lyarra’s room. The first time it had happened the Snow girl had thought that the prince had indeed catapulted Hoster over the bridge. The blood had frozen in her veins and even Cersei stayed silent.

When they fished out the body it turned out to be a knight of the Kingsguard with a note where his tongue should have been, written in Ramsay’s chicken scrawl:

_Roses are red,_

_Violets are blue,_

_This one used to hit Hoster,_

_So I send him to you._

That had elevated her fears a little, but not the Queen’s as she feared it would be her son send over one of those days. The golden Lannister had once wondered aloud about who was who’s captor in this situation, to which Lyarra had but one answer: Ramsay’s.

Cannibal

For as long as he had lived he was unwanted. Maegor and he had shared a crib and yet the human he should have bonded with had chosen the older and fully grown Bellarion as his partner.

Then those who had the potential to become his riders had feared him and ignored him, thus prompting him to slaughter the younglings. An act with which he was no longer proud of.

There were none of his kin beyond the shadows, as the humans often claimed in their tales. There were only two others alive, the maddened Silverwing and the arrogant Sheepstealer, both staying clear off him and refusing to form a flock. There were also three eggs that he could sense, but it has been so long since the last birth that he feared they would never breathe.

The great beast had felt a rider who was likely minded as him, but the girl seemed to be unwilling to accept that his kind exists, that their enemy exists and what was more important that he could exist even when he had tried to reach her in her dreams.

The crow hadn’t helped, he always spoke to his potential rider first at which point she began ignoring anything said and focusing on the ramblings of the other dragon rider in the room.

Cannibal had waited, had behaved himself and shown more understanding that someone with his background would, but no more! What a dragon demanded, a dragon should get!

He flew without stopping from the red wastes to where his rider was. His mood going sour as his formerly estranged kin had started flanking him and flying alongside him.

Like they could judge him! Silverwing had taken to eating children after her own had perished and Sheepstealer had taken to stealing all that was made from gold he could see!

Still, he allowed them to nest near him, shared his food with them as they were too lazy to hunt and warned them when the humans were too close. By the time they finally reached the man-made crossing he had the strong urge to turn around and earn his name yet again!

Before he could, Sheepstealer made a sharp turn and dived into a crowd of humans. The kleptomaniac snatched something and happily flew off. Cannibal could spot a glimmer of yellow, a blond human most probably. Well, his slow cousin would at least get a meal, if not an addition to his horde.

Silverwing continued her slow pace behind him, to an opened window where a screeching blond woman was cursing the dragon who apparently took her son away to who knew where anymore.

His silver cousin stood before the unafraid dragon rider and waited until the screeching ended and then simply aligned herself so the woman can mount her.

Cannibal watched as the bond took hold between rider and dragon and the two Ladies flew off after Sheepstealer and his stolen rider. It was finally his turn. He approached the very same window and he first saw his partner. The girl was unimpressed with his attempt at growling at her and simply walked to him.

“You flew a long way to see me, didn’t you? You waited a long time too.”, she said as she patted his muzzle fondly.

“Be a dear and disperse the host with the lion banners and if you see two people hanging on a noose, bring them here.”

Hoster Stark

He was on the noose when the dragons came, he was on the noose when Ramsay started to giggle and jump up and down and nearly killing them both before the dragon had a chance to burn them alive.

He wished he was still on the noose as the dragon grabbed them both and flew them to Lya’s room. He wished Blondie had catapulted him to that room instead as Ramsay and Lyarra had barely spared him a moment to shoo him out of the room before they did, whatever grown-ups did while they screamed and begged.

He also wished Lyarra could let him hunt Ramsay for this, but Hoster had learned from a young age that wishes never came true.

After they were done they had sent a servant to invite him back to the room. Oh, Hoster had been put through beatings, forced to stand tall with a bloody noose around his neck, but there were more important things. Let them finish those first.

His sister was lying comfortably in Ramsay’s arms, a slight smile on her face.

“Hoster, we are all going on an adventure. Go and inform Shirei, baby brother.”

His sister practically sang her orders to him. Throughout it, all the second Stark son simply stood there, with his mouth slightly hanging open. It took him roughly three hours of screaming, stomping his feet and reminding his sister she had a castle to look after and so did he for her to finally promise to reconsider her plan of flying off with her newly found pet.

Instead, she was going to redirect her efforts towards pacifying their king, who was said to be on his way with the might of the Reach, Stormlands, and Crownlands behind him. Whether to find his family and bash their heads in alongside their Dragon's and Lyarra’s it wasn’t quite certain.

_Lyarra, Lyarra,_

_Sweet child of Snow,_

_Chaos reigns supreme,_

_Yet here you are,_

_Standing by and waiting it out._

_But if you don’t leap, Lyarra,_

_You will fall._

****

**_Author’s note:_ **

**_You all thought it will be Lyarra who will rebuild the Valyrian Freehold? Eh, eh, admit it! =). As for who Silverwing and Sheepstealer’s riders were well for a long time, there were theories that Cersei and Jaime were children of the Mad King. I know they are probably false, but I still liked them. And if both Jaime and Cersei were Blackfyres then so were their children, it wasn’t much of a stretch to saddle Joffrey with an insane dragon. And I never liked how the dragons were depicted as beasts, so I’m going to give them their own personalities._ **

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for any mistakes you have encountered. I'm not a native speaker, but I did try to weed out as many as I can. I hope you all enjoyed and see you next time.


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